


Home Fires

by loveinadoorway



Series: Want an axe to break the ice [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prequel to S3.<br/>Sherlock is working on Moriarty's gang abroad. He needs his memories of John to keep going.<br/>A little bit of elaboration on "100 words on life and reasonable expectations" and the burning home fires mentioned there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Fires

Was John sitting in the armchair now, he wondered, reading the paper?

Dispassionately, Sherlock pulled another shard of glass from his arm. It bled copiously, but at least that would hopefully get rid of any dirt in the wound.

Would Mrs. Hudson bring him a cuppa just about now?

Sherlock methodically bandaged his wounds, then tried to get as comfortable as he could, cowering under a bit of tarp and some fir branches in the deep, black heart of the forest.

Like every night, he envisioned scenarios in 221b Baker Street, until he fell asleep or dawn came - whichever happened first.  
With the freezing cold and the pain from his wounds, he could predict with reasonable certainty that he would fantasize until the first pale rays of sun would crawl across the mossy ground towards his feet.

He had hoped to be able to find an abandoned building on the outskirts of Bucharest for the night, but the entire plan for the day had gone horribly wrong.

He had been tailing one of Moriarty’s men all day. So far, he had been quite successful. Six down, three more to go. But his luck apparently had run out.

The weasly American had spotted him and turned out to be a lot more dangerous than Sherlock had given the man credit for. How annoying of him. So instead of swiftly dispatching the bloke in the writhing masses of people on the Bucharest market, Sherlock found himself being chased, tossed through a window and saved in the last possible instant by the arrival of some local policemen. Which of course had meant being chased some more by them, but being as they had nothing more than the usual tiny spark of intelligence that seemed to propel people to become officers of the law worldwide, he was able to lose them fairly quickly.

He had jumped on a freight train, which seemed to be going to where the American was headed next. With very little resources left, he would just try to make the best of it. Not a chance to properly dress his wounds on the train. The tracks had been so bad, Sherlock felt like not a single bone in his body was still in its proper place by the time he arrived in the mountains.

He chuckled. The freaking Carpathians. John would get some mileage out of that. Might even quote some Stoker in an appalling accent.

The chuckle broke off with something that – in a lesser man – might be taken for a sob.

He could almost SMELL the flat. Frying fat from Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, dust, sandalwood and John. John and his unique blend of soap, aftershave and disinfectant.  
He missed the man more than words could say and he hated himself for this weakness.

His only weakness.

Sherlock tried to get a little more comfortable, but all he managed was to knock a little bit of the tarp loose overhead and now the icy sleet found a way into his shelter. Bloody hell. He’d be soaked if he ventured out now to fix it. But then again, he’d be soaked, too, if he didn’t.

An agonizing five minutes later, he was back inside, hands stiff and hurting from the cold.

John. He needed to keep concentrating on John.  
He would be in bed now. Curled up under the blankets, nice and warm and solid and familiar and… John.  
Sherlock tried to remember the way John’s skin had felt under his hands, the noises John had made, the way he had looked at Sherlock right before he came. He clung to his memories of being buried deep inside John, tried to dispel the cold and the pain and the bloody loneliness that was threatening to choke him with the reality of John.

Yes, the reality. He knew John Watson, inside and out and he was certain his lover was keeping the home fires burning.

And when Sherlock would finally return from the field, he would do something silly, a little prank that would make sure John forgave him. And he would politely pretend to listen while John remonstrated with him. He owed him that much, certainly, for pulling a stunt like that.

And then, when he was just about sick and tired of John’s endless tirades about acceptable behaviour and the reproachful, silent stares in between, he would pull the man close into a bruising kiss.

And then, he would take John.

Fuck him silly on the stairs to the flat, taking his time, making John beg and moan. Mark him, repeatedly and in visible places. Fuck him all the way upstairs to the bedroom, then do it all again and again and again until he would finally fall asleep in John’s arms and there would be peace and warmth and…

…love.


End file.
